


For Art and Happiness

by ifishouldvanish



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Body Image, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Miscarriage mention, Sexual Repression, fin de siecle, sexual anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifishouldvanish/pseuds/ifishouldvanish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Formerly titled "Reclining Nude".</p><p>A repressed Belle runs from home to pursue a life of freedom in a new city. To support herself, she turns to modeling for local eccentric painter Ross Gold. Known as the Town Pornographer, Gold's avant-garde work and lifestyle exposes her to the very ideas her father sought to guard her from.</p><p>Lot of Golden Hearts early on, but Rumbelle is the endgame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reclining Nude

Belle checks the address of the flat again. Is she really doing this? It’s better than the alternative she supposes. This, at least, is her choice. Taking one last deep breath, she raps on the heavy green door. After a moment, a woman with loose auburn hair answers. If the silk robe she wears is any indication, she definitely isn’t a maid.

“Hello?” She asks, not bothering with a formal introduction.

All of the worry bubbles up in Belle's tummy anew. She reminds herself of all the assurances from the women at the brothel. _Ross Gold is harmless. A little eccentric— but most of them are. He pays well._

“I—” Belle pauses to swallow the nervousness that’s lodged itself in her throat.

The woman eyes her skeptically. “Here about the sitting work?” She asks.

 _Sitting work._ Belle figures it’s supposed to spare her dignity. “Y-yes.” She stammers, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Of course. Come in, girl.” The woman bows her head and ushers Belle through the door, hastily locking it. “I take it this is your first time?” She asks, leading her through the series of modest rooms.

There are paintings and sketches all over the walls and floors. They cover every surface of the space. They depict men and women, some of them nude, some of them clothed. Some of them are in respectable, stately poses, while others are less dignified— their bodies contorted into grotesque positions, hands on their private parts, limbs mangled, and heads thrown back in ecstasy. Belle finds herself drawn to shameless eroticism of them all. All her life, she’s been guarded from such filth, and now she’s surrounded by it. The woman stops and looks back to Belle with a knowing smile. “...Definitely your first time.”

Belle feels her cheeks grow hot and shakes her head, embarrassed for failing to answer the question. “Yes, Miss—”

“No Miss,” the woman corrects her. “Cora, if you please.”

“Cora.” Belle repeats. “I'm um, my name is Belle.”

Cora’s eyes wander over Belle's figure for a moment. “...Such a pretty name.” She smiles, but her tone isn’t friendly. “The studio is this way,” she says, resting a hand on the doorknob briefly before twisting it open.

Belle is stunned to see two naked women lying on a pile of cushions on the floor. They’re locked in an embrace, their legs entwined as they pleasure each other. Belle feels she shouldn’t be watching, but she cannot pull her eyes away. They’re kissing and they look happier than Belle has ever felt in her life. The novelty of the sight begins to wear off, and Belle glances around the room until her eyes land on a small man with shoulder-length ashy brown hair. He’s situated behind an easel and has an intense expression on his face. His eyes are darting back and forth between his work and the scene playing out before him. Wielding a piece of charcoal, his arm sweeps over the paper in motions that are just as graceful as they are precise and deliberate.

Cora clears her throat. “Ross, the new sitter is here,” she says with a smile.

The artist tears his eyes away from his work. They land on Belle and she inhales sharply. There’s a feeling in her belly she can’t quite place, but she sets it aside. If she’s going to do this, she needs to get comfortable with having his eyes on her.

“We'll see about that,” he mumbles, setting his charcoal down. His accent is western, unexpected, but welcome. This man is an outsider here too, and Belle takes comfort in the fact. _“...Ladies,”_ he says, gesturing at the two women. They lazily rise to their feet and throw their robes on before shuffling out of the room. The artist approaches slowly, walking with a pronounced limp, and begins pacing in circles around Belle. After a few rounds, he stops abruptly.

“Well— are you going to undress for me or not?” He asks impatiently.

Belle’s heart pounds in her chest and she feels tempted to slap him for asking. But she reminds herself that this is going to be her life now, and so she clears her throat and holds her chin up high.

“Yes, sir.” She nods, beginning to unbutton her dress. She slips out of it awkwardly and begins removing her corset. When it falls to the ground, Belle feels equal parts relieved and vulnerable. The temperature in the room seems to rise as she struggles to take off her boots. When she begins to remove her stockings, Ross interrupts and asks her to leave them on. Ross and Cora continue watching silently and she isn’t sure what their silence means.

Ross begins pacing around her again once she’s finished undressing, and Belle suddenly feels conscious of her pale skin, her small breasts, and the curls between her thighs. She’s pulled away from her worry when Cora steps behind her to pull her hair loose, letting it fall over her bare shoulders.

“...What's your name?” Ross asks.

“Belle.”

“Belle.” He echoes dryly. His brown eyes flit upwards to meet hers, and there’s a slight smile tugging at his lips. “...Beautiful.” He whispers. After a pause, he looks back to Cora. “I suppose she'll do. You can go darling.” He says, pressing a chaste kiss to Cora's lips. “I'd like to work with our new guest here.”

“Of course, my dear.” Cora flashes Belle a smile and disappears into the next room.

“Please. Belle.” Ross insists, gesturing towards the divan in the corner. “Sit for me.”

“Y-yes.” She steps over and seats herself stiffly, waiting for him to say something, to do something. Anything. To grab his sketchbook and graphite. Instead he just stares at her for what seems like an eternity. Belle begins squirming under his scrutiny.

“Not like that, dearie.” He finally instructs, waving his hand. “Relax.”

Belle rolls her eyes before she can stop herself and sinks into the divan a little.

The faint smile pries at his lips again. “You've never sat before, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“You'll get used to it.” He says.

Belle believes him, but she can’t shake her nerves just yet. “Is there—” She stammers, “I’m sorry, sir, is there something I ought to be doing? A pose of some—”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “I'm not interested in your body so much as the spirit that inhabits it. Do you understand?”

Belle fidgets in her seat. “No, I uh, I'm afraid I don't, sir.”

“Just be yourself, dearie. Imagine I'm not here.”

Belle wants to, but she can’t.

“I’m sorry— I don't think I can do this,” She frowns, her arms reflexively folding themselves over her chest in modesty.

“Of course you can, dearie.” He assures softly. “There was a reason you came here today. I don't know what that reason is, though I might wager a guess. What I _do_ know is that you must be very brave, Belle.”

Her arms slide back to her sides and she nods. She could do this. She had to.

“Close your eyes for me, Belle.”

She hesitates for a second, then obliges.

“You're— you're at home,” he offers. “You've just taken a bath... Your skin— it's soft and dewy, and your hair, it smells of lavender, or maybe you prefer roses. It’s a lovely day outside...”

“I-okay…” Belle sighs and begins to recline over the divan, letting his voice guide her as she conjures the tranquil scene.

“You've no obligations for the afternoon, so you lie down. The sunlight is coming through the window and it warms your skin… You’re looking outside— or perhaps you're reading.”

Belle nods. “Yes.”

“What are you reading, Belle?” He asks softly. “Is it catalog, full of pretty dresses? A favorite book? Or perhaps... it’s a letter from your lover.”

Belle feels herself blush at the suggestion, but nonetheless finds her body relaxing, sprawling and opening to him.

“That's beautiful, Belle.” His uneven footsteps shuffle back to his easel. “Just like that.”

Soon Belle can hear the scraping sound of charcoal on paper, and she makes an effort to be absolutely still for him.

“No, no.” He whispers. “You’re getting tense. Let yourself breathe, dearie. It's alright if you move a little.”

She releases some of the tension in her muscles, but is reluctant to let go entirely.

“Relax,” He whispers, “smell the lavender, feel the letter in your hands, the way the sunlight kisses your skin. ...But it's not just the sun, is it?” He asks. “You're indulging in the fantasy of your lover's lips on your body...”

Belle feels her body surrendering to the image he's describing to her. A forbidden and vaguely familiar tension builds in her belly and she allows herself to relax more deeply. She soon feels compelled to trace her fingertips over her sides, but restrains herself.

The gentle scratching of his charcoal becomes louder. Its rhythm becomes something more staccato, and Belle is relieved that his muse seems to have carried him away.

“You're doing wonderfully, Belle.”

Encouraged, Belle submits to her urge and glides a hand across her skin. It sends a chill through her nerves and she can feel her nipples beginning to pebble in response. The reality of the situation hits her— that no one has ever seen her like this before, yet this complete stranger is studying her and immortalizing the moment on paper. It flatters her somehow. Excites her. She smiles, feeling an unfamiliar confidence with herself, and shifts on the divan again, melting into it. She finds herself turning toward him, inviting him to behold more of her.

“There we are…” he whispers. “That's it, Belle. You look exquisite.”

His voice is warm and gentle, and Belle wishes he would say more to her. Her mind replays the sound of her name on his tongue. _Belle, Belle, Belle._ A sigh escapes her and her hand meanders over to cup her breast. The feel of the pert nipple against her palm affects her somehow, and she shivers.

“What are you thinking about, Belle?” He asks. “Describe it to me, take me there.”

“I'm... cold,” she finds herself saying. “I'm in the sun, but… it's not enough.”

“Why not, Belle?”

“I need...”

“What do you need, Belle?”

Without thinking about it, her hand wanders over her mound. She's lightly combing her fingers through her curls and inhales sharply at the sensation it sends through her body. The scratching of the charcoal stops.

“I need—”

 _“That's enough.”_ He blurts before she can finish.

Belle's eyes flutter open and she looks over to him in confusion.

“Would you look at that,” Cora snickers from the doorway. “She's a natural.”

Belle jerks upright on the divan and begins covering herself with her arms.

“That will do for now, Belle.” Ross coughs. “You can get dressed. I would like for you to sit for me again sometime, if that's agreeable to you.”

Belle nods and scurries to her pile of clothes on the floor.

“Thank you, Belle.” He pauses and turns to Cora. “Cora dear, please see Belle out and be sure to give her a krone for her time.”

Ross steps out of the room and Belle is ushered out before she has a chance to see what he’s drawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gold's character is loosely based on the Austrian artist Egon Schiele, of whom I am a total stan. As such, the setting is loosely based on Austria-Hungary c.1900.
> 
> Modeling for an artist was basically equated to prostitution. However, if you were posing for an artist who had been commissioned to do your portrait, you would be referred to as a 'sitter'. Gold refers to his models as sitters because they are the subjects of his work, rather than just being anatomical references.


	2. Portrait of Jeremias Hutmacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more background on Belle and Gold's characters :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romy is Ruby, and Herr Hutmacher is Jefferson

“So how was it, hun?” Romy asks, sliding into the seat across from Belle in the kitchen.

Belle isn't sure how to answer that. She feels herself blushing as she recalls the events that took place at Gold's studio. “It was alright.”

Frau Lucas steps up to the table and spoons some broth into their bowls. “You needn't feel ashamed, sweetheart. We're all unfortunate women here.” She pauses and gives Belle a stern look. “...He pay you?”

“Yes,” Belle nods excessively, fishing the krone from her pocket and placing it on the table. She expects the older woman to take it as payment for her accommodations, but she only smiles and walks away.

“So did you see it?” Romy asks excitedly, scooting to the edge of her seat.

“I—I'm sorry?” Belle stammers. _See what,_ she thinks.

“Your portrait.” Romy clarifies. “Did you get a look at it? Was it any good?”

“No, I uh, I didn't.” Belle answers. “Though I saw plenty of his… other work.”

Romy's lips curl into a grin. “What'd you think?”

“It's um… very different,” Belle offers. “Unlike any art I've ever seen before.”

“Yeah, he's one of those… _modernists_.” Romy says. “We have a few of them around here. They dropped out of the Academy in the city and started their own school.”

“You mean there are more? Like  _him?”_ Belle asks skeptically.

“Yes, and no.” Romy laughs. “They call themselves Secessionists. Think the Academy is too old-fashioned— keeping art from reaching its full potential and what have you.” She rolls her eyes. “But Gold is in a class of his own.”

“H-how do you mean?”

“Well…” Romy purses her lips in thought. “You said it yourself. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.” She leans in closely. “I kinda like it, though.” She whispers.

“You do?” Belle feels relieved, because she can't shake the feeling that she rather likes it as well.

“I've been painted a muse and a goddess many times,” Romy says. “But Gold painted me as the whore that I am.” She snickers. “When I saw the painting he did, I felt proud of it, curious as it may sound.” Romy pauses to sip on her broth for a moment. “I had this feeling like... I was going to be remembered somehow. Not as Danae or Judith, or Liberty, but as me.”

“I… hadn't thought of it that way before,” Belle admits. She likes the idea of being _her,_ and not somebody else's idea of who she should be.

“The merchants and bankers have the dignity of being themselves when they're painted.” Romy says. “Why not us working girls?” She winks.

Belle knows the answer to that question, but she smiles anyway, because she agrees with her new friend. Being true to yourself shouldn’t be a privilege.

“Will you go back?” Romy asks.

“I think I will.” Belle nods. “He uh, he said he'd like to work with me again.”

“That's good,” Romy smiles. “He's incredibly prolific. He'll have plenty of work for you until you find something more permanent.”

Belle doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s not ready to think about permanent work. She busies herself with her soup for a moment, then clears her throat. “Some of his paintings…” she begins cautiously, “they show women— _and men_ — um…”

Romy smiles knowingly. “ _In amorous congress?”_ She says, wiggling her brows.

Belle laughs uncomfortably. “Well, yes but… some of them are—” She can't bring herself to say the word.

“Masturbating.” Romy finishes so she doesn't have to.

Belle chuckles again and knows she her cheeks must be frightfully red. “Have you ever... _done that_ for him?”

Romy scowls. “He’s never asked it of me, so no.” She shrugs.

Belle feels her face growing hotter. He hadn't asked it of her either, yet she was ready to— and all it had taken was for him to whisper a few soothing words. If Romy was a whore, what did that make _her?_

“Did he—” Romy begins to ask.

“No.” Belle answers too quickly. “No, no. I was just— wondering.”

“If you’d like, I’m certain one of us ladies could accompany you next time.” Romy offers.

“No.” Belle says again. “No, that’s fine. It’s fine. ...He didn’t.”

Romy laughs at this. “I’d be astonished if he had.”

“Perhaps. I’ll uh, consider it.” Belle stammers.

Romy leans back into her chair and studies her guest for a moment. “I don't know where you came from, Belle, or what you're running from,” she says, “But you're safe here.”

 

Belle finishes her supper and escapes to her humble room. She tries to read her book, but her mind keeps wandering to Ross Gold. She hears his voice over and over. _“You must be very brave, Belle.”_

She hopes so.

Nobody's ever called her brave before. Not her father. Not Gaston.

Ross had asked her to be herself, and Belle has the realization she doesn't know who that is. Yet she thinks the moment she spent sprawled out on his divan is the closest she's ever been to figuring it out.

His voice continues to echo in her mind as she relives the session. _That's beautiful, Belle. Relax. You're doing wonderfully, Belle. What are you thinking about, Belle? Describe it to me, take me there._

She's touching herself again, her fingers raking over her curls. She's back in the studio and Ross is watching her. She spreads her legs for him and traces a finger along her slit but then her father is there. He's standing in the middle of the studio, watching Ross watching her, and she suddenly feels ashamed. Gaston walks in and he’s shouting at her. Belle can’t hear him, but she can read his lips. He’s calling her a whore. He reaches an arm out to grab her, to drag her home by her hair. Belle quickly pulls her hand away as though she's been burned and bites down on her lip. It starts to bleed and she hears Ross’s voice again. “ _You must be very brave, Belle.”_

Tomorrow, she decides, she'll go back to Ross Gold's studio and sit for him again.

 

*****

 

Ross sets his paintbrush down and tucks his hair behind his ears before hitching down the hall to answer the door. He’s greeted by a gentleman whose dark, unkempt hair mars his otherwise stately appearance. “Herr Hutmacher.”

_“Gold,”_ The man acknowledges with a nod. He extends a hand, but Ross declines to shake it, as his hands are covered with smudged charcoal and half-dried paint.

“Please, come in.” He bows instead. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Jeremias.”

“The pleasure is always mine, Gold.” He says as Ross locks the door. “I see you’re keeping yourself busy.”

“If the subjects painted themselves, I’d be out of work.” He deadpans, leading his guest back to the studio. “Please— have a seat.”

“Oh, there'll be time for that, Ross!” Jeremias chuckles, swatting a hand dismissively and setting his briefcase down. “For now, I'd prefer to stand,” he says, beginning to make a pass through the studio. He's examining the collection of new portraits that have appeared since his last visit. As usual, several of them catch his attention.

“This one—” He points out, plucking a sheet of paper off the wall. It's a self-portrait, one of many in crayon and gouache.

“Yes?”

“I rather like it.”

“Thank you.”

Herr Hutmacher studies it a moment longer with narrowed eyes. “...I'll give you twelve crowns for it.”

Ross flashes his favorite patron a lopsided grin. “Consider it yours, sir.”

The two of them continue to circle around the room, and Herr Hutmacher picks out three more pieces he’d like for his collection. At one particular charcoal drawing, he does a double-take.

“...Who's this?” He asks.

“Oh. Just did that one yesterday. New subject.” Ross pauses to admire his work for a moment. “...Her name's Belle.”

“It's magnificent.” Hutmacher observes.

“Yes, I'm quite pleased with it.”

“I can just feel the tension boiling within her.” He explains. “So unsure of herself, yet— there’s a fire.”

Ross wipes the faint smile off of his face. “Well, it was her first time working as a sitter. You know how they get.”

“It reminds me of one of your early portraits of Cora.”

Ross scoffs. “She's nothing like Cora.”

“I can see that.” Hutmacher chuckles. “But I'm referring to your treatment of her. Your technique, the expressiveness of the lines…”

“Hm.” Ross shrugs.

“How many crowns for it?”

“I...” Ross coughs and points a finger at the drawing. “Actually, I'm ah— I’m afraid this one’s not for sale.”

Hutmacher frowns. “Pity.”

He produces his wallet and gives Ross a handful of kronen. “For your business,” he says and returns to his briefcase to stow away his new acquisitions. He then fishes out two books and sets them on the end table. “...And for your pleasure.” He smiles, tapping a finger on the hardcovers.

“I haven't finished the others.” Ross confesses.

“Well, that's because you engage in too much business and not enough pleasure.” Jeremias snickers.

Ross rolls his eyes lets out a groan, but is betrayed by a smile. “Well sir, perhaps you might be ready to sit now?”

“Yes, yes. Of course,” The man chuckles, settling into the dingy armchair across from Ross’ easel as he swaps his charcoal and paper for oil and canvas.

“Herr Hutmacher!” Cora hurries into the room jubilantly, her long robe flowing behind her. She pecks Ross on the cheek as she passes him on her way to give the man a friendly hug. “Always a delight to see you!”

“Cora, dear! You’re looking as lovely as ever, how are you?”

“I’m wonderful, sir!” She beams. “I trust you’re still doing quite well, if you’ve the time to sit for Ross.” She says with a playful smile.

“I’ll sit for Ross for as long as he’ll have me,” the man laughs. “But yes, I’m very well, thank you.”

“Might I fetch you something to drink?” She offers eagerly. “Water, tea? Wine… a beer?”

“At this hour?” He laughs. “Some tea would be lovely, dear.”

“I’ll be right back,” Cora assures and glides out of the room.

Jeremias waits until she’s out of earshot and clears his throat. “Lovely girl she is, Ross.”

“Yes.” Ross mumbles, preoccupied with sorting through his brushes. “Indeed.”

“You don’t suppose you might, er...”

Ross shakes his head vehemently. “I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Well heaven’s Ross, it’s not as though she’d be marrying _down!_ ” The man guffaws. “Poor thing doesn’t have any reputation left to spare. Besides— an artist and his muse... I think it’d be a darling match.”

Ross shrugs. “The timing isn’t right.”

Jeremias scoffs. “Never is, eh?”

“No. It’s not.” Ross sighs, hiking his brows.

He's relieved when Cora returns with the tea. He’s preparing his palette, mixing golds and reds and ocean blues when she comes up behind him and glides her arms around his waist. She nuzzles against his neck and presses a kiss to his shoulder.

_“Sweetheart...”_ Ross tuts. “Not while we have com—” She steals a kiss from him and he can feel his cheeks growing hot.

Herr Hutmacher is right; she has no reputation left to spare. She's a young unwed woman living with the local pornographer, as they've been calling him. But Cora doesn't mind her soiled reputation. In fact, Ross thinks she rather enjoys it. He fled home to escape his reputation, but deep down he knew that wasn’t possible, that there wasn't any place in the world for a soul like his. What he hadn't expected however, was for this charming, brash girl to come into his life and embrace it so willingly. To believe in him and his work so strongly.

Ross is breathless when Cora parts from him, and Herr Hutmacher is watching them with a smile. “Precious.” He says.

Cora finally untangles herself from her lover and sprawls out comfortably on the divan. She watches him reverently as he begins working on Hutmacher’s new portrait.

Jeremias sits for two hours, and Cora starts to grow restless. She rises to her feet and joins Ross at his easel to see his progress. It’s nowhere near finished, but the contours are down and the composition is beginning to take shape.

“Come now, how bad is it?” Jeremias laughs.

“Oh, Ross... This is going to be your best yet, I can tell.” Cora assures. “You simply _must_ show it at the next exhibition! A piece like this would finally get the Secession the respect it deserves!”

Ross pauses for a moment to review his work and scoffs. “I think you speak too soon, darling." He flicks her nose with the tip of his brush, marring her face with yellow paint.


	3. Kneeling Woman With Blue Stockings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right where the last chapter left off.

Belle knocks on the door of Ross Gold's flat. Today, Romy has loaned her an outfit that's far easier to get out of— a loose ivory blouse tucked into a dark gored skirt. Romy had also assured her that she needn’t wear her corset so tightly, much to Belle’s delight.

Cora answers the door again and greets Belle with an, “Oh, you're back.”

But Belle's too distracted by the streak of yellow on her nose to respond. “I-I'm sorry “ Belle shakes her head, “You um, have something—”

Cora’s cheeks suddenly flush crimson and she rubs the paint away with her delicate fingers. _“...Ross.”_ She explains with a chuckle. “Please, come in.” She quickly locks the door and walks Belle into the studio, where Ross is busy working at his easel. It's been repositioned to face a large armchair, where a tall gentleman is seated. He has his clothes on, Belle immediately notices.

“What was your name again, dear?” Cora asks.

 _“Belle.”_ Ross acknowledges with a smile, looking up at her from behind his easel. The sitting man turns his head sharply to see her.

“Right.” Cora says and shakes her head at Belle apologetically. “I’m a lost cause with names,” she chuckles, “I don’t know how he does it.”

“I suppose we all uh, have our own gifts,” Belle says with polite bow and glances around the room, waiting for an invitation to sit.

“I apologize, dearie. I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment.” Ross says. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You can ah, _help yourself to one of Herr Hutmacher's books_ while you wait.” He suggests, poking his brush toward the end table and locking eyes with the man posing before him. “...Let me know if they're worthwhile.” He snickers.

The sitting man scoffs. “As if your taste is so discerning!”

“Well Jeremias, this _is_ the fourth portrait you’ve commissioned from me.” Ross quips, “If either of us has questionable taste, it’d have to be you.”

Belle giggles, pleasantly surprised to see how much more amiable Ross seems to be in this man’s company. She cautiously steps over to the end table to see the books and Hutmacher, noticing her timidness, smiles.

“Go ahead, little mouse!” He insists.

“T-thank you, sir.” Belle bites back a smile and eagerly picks them up. “I do love books,” she admits shyly as she admires their covers. _The Awakening_ by Kate Chopin. _Red Pottage_ by Mary Cholmondeley. Belle blinks and reads the authors’ names again. Her father’s library housed many books, but none of them were written by women.

“Come, Belle,” Cora says, patting the space beside her on the divan. “Ross will be finishing up with Jeremias before long.”

“Actually,” Ross smacks his lips, “Cora, dear, do we have a robe Belle can wear?” He asks, his eyes remaining fixed on his canvas. “She may as well get ready, get comfortable.”

“I'm sure we do,” she says, getting up. “Come, let's get you into something more comfortable.”

Cora leads Belle into a modestly-sized bedroom. The bed covers are rumpled and twisted, and men's and women's clothes are draped over a screen and an oak chiffonier. One of Ross’ paintings is hanging on the wall over the bed. It shows the two of them wrapped in each other's arms and framed by flowers. Belle's cheeks grow pink at the realization that Ross and Cora must sleep in the same bed together, and she wonders what that must be like— to share yourself with someone so intimately and to be accepted by them so wholly.

She decides it must be wonderful.

There's a window on one of the walls and sunlight is filling the room. Its warmth kisses Belle's skin as she undresses, but the sight of her own clothes mingled with Ross’ and Cora’s gives her the sense that she is an intruder. When Cora hands her a blue robe however, the feeling is chased away. The silk glides over her skin weightlessly, and Belle feels free as a bird as they head back to the studio.

Despite her nerves over disrobing again, Belle settles on the divan and buries her nose in the first of the two books. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so comfortable in her life, and inwardly congratulates herself on her decision to leave home. Her father and Gaston always warned her of the sort mean-spirited people out in the world, yet so far, she hadn't met a spirit any colder than their own. Suddenly someone nudges at her shoulder, pulling her from her reverie.

“Look at Ross,” Cora whispers, flitting her eyes at him across the room. Belle does as she says, turning her attention to him as he gingerly applies paint to his canvas, though she isn’t quite sure what she’s watching for. “I love how focused he gets,” she says with a smile like that of a child with a secret. “I could watch him all day.”

Belle isn’t sure what to say to that, so she settles for a polite smile.

“He’s going to be a celebrated artist one day,” Cora sighs. “I know it.”

“He must be very talented.” Belle offers. She hesitates, then closes her book. “Do— Do you make any art?”

Cora chuckles and glances at Ross again as he trades his brush for a palette knife. He furrows his brows and begins scraping at his canvas in slow, precise movements. “I asked him to teach me once.” She says. “But I haven’t the… knack for it, I suppose. Lost my interest. He certainly tried though, bless his heart.”

Belle tries to imagine Cora at an easel, brush in hand, while Ross stands close behind, gently guiding her technique. She can see Cora getting increasingly frustrated, but imagines Ross would be perfectly patient with her. She wonders if maybe, in due time, Ross might teach her. She thinks she'd rather enjoy it.

Belle gives Cora a smile and returns to her book.

_“You are burnt beyond recognition,” he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage._

Belle now feels a heaviness in the pit of her stomach. She reads the sentence again, because she knows this look all too well but has never before seen it so aptly described.

“I say, I'm beginning to think the girls have the right idea,” Herr Hutmacher snickers, pulling Belle from her reading. “Why am _I_ paying _you_ for the privilege of sitting on my rear all day?”

“Ah Jeremias,” Ross chuckles, “you forget what labor it is for me to look upon you for so long. Perhaps if you were half as charming in a negligee, I'd give you a krone for your time as well.” He sets his brush down and silently evaluates his work for a moment. “...Come. What do you think?”

Jeremias rises from his seat and eagerly rushes to join Ross behind the easel.

“It's magnificent.” Jeremias says, furrowing his brows and leaning in closely. His hand hovers over the canvas, fingers tracing along the lines of his new likeness.

“It's not finished just yet.” Ross reminds him. “But I’ll no longer require your ah… _services_ for the remaining details.”

Jeremias huffs out a laugh and gives him a pat on the back. “Well thank the good Lord for that.”

“You can come by to pick it up in a week.” Ross informs, extending a hand.

“Oh, stop it! You can't get rid of me that easily,” Jeremias hushes, swatting his hand away. “I think I'll tarry a while longer, if you don't mind.”

“I don't.” He shrugs and sets the canvas down to dry. “Belle. If you wouldn't m—” He stops himself as soon as his eyes land on her, her eyes glued to her book. “Actually, stay just where you are.” He finishes with a smile, slowly picking up a sketchbook and crayon. He hooks a chair under his arm and carries it over, setting it in front of the divan. He's being intentionally quiet about it, as if approaching a frightened animal.

Belle tears her eyes away from her book and scowls at him in confusion. “Oh— sorry.” She stammers and begins untying her robe.

“No, no, dearie.” He whispers, gently resting a hand on her arm, stopping her. He takes his seat, crossing one leg over the other and opening his sketchbook up to a blank page. “Stay just like that.”

Belle stops and looks to Cora, who's watching with a smile. “He's caught you in a moment,” she explains. “Go ahead— keep reading, dear.”

Herr Hutmacher is spectating from the corner of the room, and nods at her encouragingly.

“Well, alright…” Belle says with a blush. She opens her book again and eyes them skeptically before returning to her reading. She feels tense, knowing she's being watched so closely, but after a moment she hears the soft rubbing sound of Ross’ crayon on paper. It lulls her into a sort of trance, and soon she's turning page after page of Chopin.

Belle’s reading is interrupted again several minutes later by the quiet thud of Ross setting his crayon down. She peers over his lap to get a look at the drawing. “May— may I see it?” She asks.

“It’s only a sketch,” he says, holding it out to her. “A warm-up.” Cora scoffs and shakes her head.

Belle smiles widely, her eyes following all of the craggy black lines that make up her face, her hair, her hands, and the folds in her robe.

“I like it.” She tells him. “I‘ve never seen what I look like while I read.”

She’s depicted with a slight smile on her lips, her eyes narrowed over the pages of the book in her hands. It’s nothing like any of the paintings she sat for for her father, looking drearily ahead with no purpose other than being a pretty thing. Ross’ drawing isn’t as technically impressive, but far more charming, she thinks. She actually looks happy in it.

“I think it’s lovely,” Cora says. “You’ve really captured her spirit, darling.”

“You always say that, dear.” Ross blushes and glances away shyly.

“Would you prefer I didn't?” She teases, and he answers by taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it.

Jeremias quits his customary lap around the studio to come over and join them. He cocks his head to the side as he examines the drawing. “Such lovely command of line and space,” he murmurs. “And as always, a spiritedness beyond compare, Ross.”

He chuckles uncomfortably under the praise. “Well...” He says, clasping his hands together. “Are you ready for me now, Belle?”

She nods, handing the sketchbook back to him, and he rises to his feet. He sets it down on the worktable and resumes his position at the easel. Belle's eyes are focused on him readying his supplies as she gets up and begins untying her robe. It’s different this time, with Herr Hutmacher present— but based on the short time she’s spent in his company, Belle decided that she needn’t fear him. The silk slides off of her shoulders and onto the floor without a sound.

The feeling of vulnerability creeps back as she watches him rummage through a box full of pencils and other media. She wishes he would look up at her already, but he's focused on his charcoals, inspecting them one by one. He sets one aside and picks up a blackened kneaded eraser. His smudged, calloused fingers stretch and fold it, and Belle pages her nervous thoughts aside to watch. Finally, he rolls the eraser between his palms until its light grey color is sufficiently restored.

“Where should I…” Belle begins to ask, gesturing around the room.

“Anywhere you like, Belle.” He says softly. “The divan, the chair, the floor cushions. Stand if you like… kneel,” he suggests with a shrug. Now he's lightly dragging a stick of charcoal back and forth over a sharpening block. Belle's beginning to realize what a ritual it is, and she's fascinated by it.

Thinking he may be weary of the armchair, and being weary on the divan herself, Belle kneels on the floor cushions.

“Comfortable?” He asks, finally glancing over his easel at her.

Belle anticipates her knees will grow sore soon, but she nods anyway. “Mhmm.”

“Excellent.” He draws his charcoal to the paper, but quickly seems to think better off it and drops his hand. “Are you ah… are you enjoying the book, Belle?” He asks **.**

She knits her brows together, caught off guard by the question. “Why uh, y-yes, sir. I am.”

“What is it about?”

“A woman.” She answers simply, twiddling her thumbs over her belly. “Her name is Edna. She's married, but she's unhappy.”

Cora chuckles. “You don't say.”

Ross darts her a scolding look, but smiles. “Why do you think she is unhappy, Belle?”

“Because she’s married!” Hutmacher jokes. “Next question.”

Ross rolls his eyes. Belle smiles, then purses her lips in thought for a second. “...She uh, doesn't love her husband. She keeps taking her wedding ring off, but someone always appears and reminds her to put it back on.” She answers with a scoff and shifts on her knees more comfortably.

Ross picks his charcoal back up. “You find this amusing?” He asks.

“In a way.” Belle nods. “But it also saddens me.”

“Why?”

“I've no wedding band, sir. But I've been scolded many times for wearing blue stockings.”

“...I see.” Ross smiles amusedly as he finally begins working. “We’re actually quite fond of blue stockings here, aren't we sweetheart?”

“Yes, we are.” Cora says with a grin, settling more comfortably in the divan. “I think them wonderfully flattering on a girl.”

“I never leave home without mine,” Jeremias chirps.

Belle nibbles her lip for a moment and glances down at her breasts, letting her arms drop freely to her sides. She feels much more at ease being on display now— proud almost, as Ross studies her body and begins immortalizing every curve with his charcoal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluestocking - pejorative for a learned woman; it's a reference to the Blue Stockings Society, a group of women (and also some men) from the 18th century who would gather to discuss art and literature.


	4. Self-Portrait With Lowered Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angsty, Rumbelle-less, tragic backstory chapter that ends with Golden Hearts fluff, because I'm multi-shipping trash. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Schäfer is Charming. Herr Berger is Xavier.  
> Trigger warnings: body image/dismorphia, miscarriage mention, implied/referenced rape and abuse, sexual anxiety

Ross swipes the sheet off of the oversized mirror in his studio. He studies his reflection intently for a moment, his hands buried in the pockets of his black trousers and a scowl on his face. He feels different today, as though he's entered the first stage of some sort of metamorphosis. Not like the chrysalis into the butterfly, but the caterpillar into the pupa. He leans in closely to examine the lines in his face, the wariness in his eyes, the pointedness of his nose which he can admit he's rather fond of.

Cora is sitting for David Schäfer this afternoon, as she is wont to do from time to time. She enjoys the community of misfits they’ve created for themselves, artists, models, and patrons— and David has been in need of many models for an ambitious project he's working on for the Secession.

It's days when Cora is out that Ross likes to spend some time on self-portraits. And given the imminent changes he’s feeling in the air around him, he's in fact quite thankful for the opportunity. His self-portraits are important to him, and he prefers to do them without any company. They've always been private moments— conversations with himself in which he bares his soul, and lays out all of his sins for examination.

Ross is beginning to undress for himself when there's a knock at the door. Grumbling, he fastens his trousers again and limps over to the front door. When he opens it, it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to immediately slam it shut.

“Herr Berger.” Ross coldly acknowledges his uninvited guest and gestures for him to come in.

“Gold.” The elegantly dressed man extends his hand, but Ross doesn’t take it— and this time it isn't because his hands are covered in paint.

“If you're looking to have your portrait done, I'm afraid I'm not accepting commissions at the moment.” He informs bitterly, hitching back into his studio.

“No, no.” Herr Berger tuts, following after him. “Not this time.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I wish to speak to Fräulein Müller.” He says, removing his coat and revealing a vest of red and gold brocade.

“Ah.” Ross sits at his workstation and begins preparing a canvas with gesso. “But have you considered the possibility that she does not wish to speak to you?”

“She will.”

Ross scoffs. “And why might that be?”

Herr Berger stops at a nude portrait of Cora and tears it from the wall, folding and pocketing it. “Because I'm here to offer her something you can't.”

“I'm quite certain you haven't a damned thing she'd be interested in.” Ross mutters.

Berger continues pacing until he notices a gouache portrait of Ross and Cora. He takes it down and slowly tears it in half, splitting their likenesses apart. “I intend to ask for her hand.” He says casually, dropping the pieces and letting them fall to the floor like autumn leaves.

“Ah, so you're here to beg,” Ross chuckles. “I'm sorry. I thought you said _you_ had something to offer _her_.”

“I do,” Berger assures, sauntering around the studio and plucking away more portraits as he goes. “A life of comfort. Privilege. Respect.”

Ross clears his throat. “Cora has no... desire for such things.” He argues, but his voice is small.

“Is that so?” Berger stops and spins on his heels to face him. “Do you honestly think she's happy here? Living in squalor as your little whore?”

“ _My_ whore?” Ross scowls. “That's interesting, coming from the man dangling his wealth and propriety around because he knows he can't earn her affections otherwise.”

“Then why haven't _you_ made a proper woman of her yet, Ross?”

“Because I've no desire to selfishly _latch_ her to me. I wouldn't do that to her.”

“So you admit that a union to you would be an insult, even to her.”

“It would seem she disagrees. Quite often, in fact.” Ross winks.

Herr Berger stops at another portrait of Cora. It’s a charcoal drawing of her lying on her back and clutching her breasts. Her skirts are pulled up and her knees are bent, leaving her vulva completely exposed. “Don't worry. You can continue to fuck her.” Berger offers. “I understand the world is much changed and I'm not so naive to think that a girl as… _tenacious_ as Fräulein Müller wouldn't keep a pet.”

“So you admit you couldn't make her happy.”

“Marriage isn't about happiness.” Berger scoffs.

“No, not hers. That much is clear.”

“Enough. Where is she, Ross?”

“Fortunately— not here. Perhaps you might try calling upon her again some other time.”

“I see. You’ve leased her _services_ out to one of your degenerate colleagues, then.”

“You seem to underestimate Cora’s… _tenacious_ spirit, as you so aptly called it.” Ross snickers.

“I just hope they aren’t harboring the French Gout. For your sake.”

Ross slams his paintbrush down and takes a deep breath. “Have you _anything_ complimentary to say about the woman you intend to marry?” He asks as calmly as he can manage.

Berger grins smugly at him. “...My family has need of her father’s land.”

Ross presses his lips into a thin line and strokes his chin contemplatively. “Now, if only you could marry the man himself…” Ross murmurs. “Shame, that! The two of you would make a lovely match.”

Herr Berger opens his mouth to object, but holds his tongue. “This was a waste of my time.” He mutters.

“And mine as well.” Ross sneers, setting his canvas down and beginning work on another.

“It's no matter. I only cared to drop by this pigsty as a courtesy. Her father's already given me his blessing.”

Ross gives the man a crooked smirk. “Did he happen to give you a chocolate teapot as well?”

“I advise you start being more careful, Ross.” Berger warns. “Who knows what might happen should your _art_ find itself before the wrong audience.”

Ross rolls his eyes. “Good day, Herr Berger.” He grunts. “Now unless you've any more idle threats to make, I'm sure a strapping man like yourself is more than capable of showing himself the door?”

“Certainly. Have a lovely afternoon, Herr Gold.” Berger says flatly before disappearing down the hall.

The front door closes and Ross follows over to lock it. He lingers there for a few minutes, running trembling fingers through his hair. Rubbing a sweating palm over his face. Taking deep, staggered breaths. Circling his thumb rhythmically over his forefinger.

When he finally returns to the mirror, Ross hates what he sees. His skin is dark and rough and calloused. The steeliness that was in his eyes moments ago is gone. His nose is beastly. When he removes his shirt, he’s left with more dark, rough, calloused skin. Scarred skin. Hairless, but not smooth— more like a barren wasteland where nothing dares to grow.

Ross shakes his head and unfastens his trousers. He steps out of them and stares at his legs. Short, weak, uneven things with knobby knees. And then there's his ankle. Battered and mangled into something grotesque.

He wishes he could forget that day at the mines, but how could he? Five men trapped below from a premature blast. It should have been six, but he ran and managed to get away with some shrapnel lodged in his leg. Craig Colquhoun dove over one of the younger lads to shield him from the blast, but Ross Gold just ran.

Perhaps that's what these self-portraits really are, Ross thinks. A way of punishing himself. Forcing himself to look at the scars and remember.

Remember that he ought to be dead in the mines back at home like Craig Colquhoun.

Ross sighs.

He removes his knickers and stares at his flaccid penis. He supposes there's nothing wrong with it, anatomically speaking. But it disgusts him nonetheless. He knows it shouldn't.  Sex is natural and beautiful and gives rise to new life. At least, it should. But in his experience, Ross has seen it bring more death and decay than life.

He thinks of his mother again. Rhona Gold. Plagued by miscarriage after miscarriage. Yet somehow, wee Ross managed to make it. He supposes that must count for something. When Ross was younger and didn't understand, he had wondered why she kept trying. But what an assumption that was for him to make— that she wanted any of it. She'd always told him he was her little miracle, but he never felt that way.

Her passing was a mercy.

Ross had tried, of course. To stop the shouting, the crying, the clusters of bruises she'd have the following morning. But all it got him were cigarette burns and bruises of his own, and they only became more frequent once there was no wife for Malcolm to force himself upon.

His passing was a blessing.

Seemed fitting, Ross thought, that the Gout should do him in.

Ross pulls himself from his thoughts and back to the flesh that dangles sadly between his legs. He wonders why Cora stays with him, what she sees in him— because he can't see it, and he never could. When she first showed up to model for him, he’d instantly been drawn to how fearless and irreverent she was. She exuded a sort of self-assuredness that was magnetic to him and quickly became his favorite model. His muse. And despite his confoundment when she’d offered to touch him for the first time, he was, after all, only human.

Ross just couldn't fathom how a woman could want anything to do with a man's treacherous anatomy. But Cora had flashed him an encouraging smile and had this wicked way about her that he was powerless against. When she laid him back and took him in, there was no questioning that she enjoyed it— and what a sweet revelation it was feel wanted and capable of making someone so happy. That afternoon in his studio, Cora made him feel less ashamed of himself and his body. She stayed with him that night and hasn't left since.

Ross limps back to his easel and drags it over to the mirror. He makes a second trip for a crayon, then begins twisting his body in the mirror, trying to decide on a pose.

 

*****

 

It's late at night and Ross is lying in bed with Cora beside him. It's only been a few minutes, but he can tell he won't be getting any sleep tonight. He keeps shifting around, the bed linens grating him like sandpaper. He adjusts his pillow repeatedly, but cannot get comfortable. He can't stand it anymore and rolls over.

“...Cora? Sweetheart?”

Her eyes flutter open. “Yes, darling?”

Ross takes a deep breath. He’s thankful for how little moonlight makes it through the window, because he can't look her in the eyes. “Are you… are you happy? Here? With me?”

Cora smiles. “Of course I am.” She nestles up against him and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Ross, why would you ever question such a thing?”

“You… you deserve more than this.” He says, nodding toward the other side of the room. More than me.” He reaches for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “All I can ever give you is a life of darkness and isolation.”

Cora tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and leans in, kissing him deeply. “And love.” She says as she pulls away.

Dazed, Ross searches her eyes for a moment. What little light there is, reflects brightly in them. “Aye. And love.” He echoes, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

Cora idly circles a finger around his nipple for a moment, her lips curling into a smile as it hardens. “Besides...” she snickers, rolling him onto his back. “What's wrong with a little darkness and isolation?” She folds the bed covers down and begins climbing on top of him. “The fewer imbeciles I have to entertain on a daily basis, the better.”

“What about this imbecile?” He scoffs, gesturing at himself.

She scowls in thought for a few seconds, her eyes wandering back and forth from his eyes all the down to his navel. “...I'm willing to make an exception for you, Ross Gold.” She murmurs.

“Hm. Such an honor.” He deadpans, sliding his hands up her thighs.

“It is.” Cora pouts. “I don't make exceptions lightly, you know.”

“I know you don't, dear. You're _very_ discerning.” He croons, arching his brow.

“I knew you were an exception the moment I met you,” she says, dragging her fingertips along his sides. “The way you looked at me when I undressed for you, the way you painted me… I thought, _this is a person who understands me_.”

“I like to think so.” Ross says with a shrug, a satisfied little smirk tugging at his lips.

She leans over to press another kiss to his lips. “You're an ass.”

Ross smiles. “I love you.”

“And I—” Cora pauses to pull her nightgown over her shoulders and tosses it aside. “Love _you_.”

Ross takes her hands in his own and gazes up at her reverently. She has scars of her own, but the dim glow of night makes her look soft, ethereal. Like a figure in one of Knopff’s paintings. It doesn't matter what kind of compromising positions she holds for him in his studio every day— alone in their bedroom, she always overwhelms him.

“...Now why would I want to paint Danae or Aphrodite when I could paint _you_ , Cora Müller?”

Cora narrows her eyes at him. “... Charmer.” She teases.

 _“Leannan sìth.”_ He shoots back.

She grins devilishly at this, as she always does, slowly wresting hold of his hands and bringing them up over her breasts. “Touch me, Ross.”

 _“Alles was du willst, mein Schatz,”_ he murmurs, shifting upright in their bed. Cora rolls her eyes at the way his accent afflicts his German. “Avec plaisir, ma cherie?” He offers instead with a smile, cupping her breasts and gliding his thumbs over her nipples. “...Miláčku?”

“Just how many places have you been?” Cora groans.

“Many, many places, my dear.” Ross whispers. He brings his lips to her now hardened nipple, flicking it with his tongue before taking it between his lips for a kiss.

Cora watches him with a smile. “And you found a treasure in every one, I'm sure.” She teases.

“Oh, no.” He hums, switching to the other. “Madrid. Paris. Firenze. Praha.” He pulls away and slides a hand between her thighs to stroke her. “It wasn't until Wien that I met a lass as _hinreißend_ as you.”

Cora laughs. “You know, in some cultures, liars are punished by having their tongues cut out.” She jokes.

“Well, fortunately for you—” Ross grunts and rolls them over. “We're not in one of them.” He winks at her and begins charting kisses down her torso. He reaches the apex of her thighs and glances back up at her with a smirk. “...And I'm not a liar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Gout/The Gout - euphemism for syphilis  
> Ross’ backstory here is heavily inspired by Schiele’s-- His mother suffered several miscarriages and stillbirths, and lost a daughter to congenital syphilis. Schiele was the only surviving son, and his father died from long-untreated syphilis. As a result, he had a pretty twisted view on the relationship between sex, death, and birth-- which inspired the ‘grotesque eroticism’ of his work.
> 
> Idk if it’ll make it into the story, but I'm imagining that after Ross left Scotland, he kind of drifted around Europe from city to city before settling into Vienna’s art scene, picking up traces of the local languages along the way. He totally uses it to woo Cora because he's a romantic sap who loves the idea of being able to express his affections in as many tongues as possible ;)  
>  _ **Leannan sìth:**_ Scottish Gaelic term for a fairy muse who takes a human lover. While she inspires him, she also feeds off of his spirit, causing him to die young. I like to think Ross jokingly nicknamed her this for her brassiness, and Cora just thinks the whole idea is romantic.  
>  _ **Alles was du willst, mein Schatz:**_ German for “Whatever you want, my treasure”  
>  _ **Ma cherie/Miláčku:**_ terms of endearment in French and Czech, respectively. Darling, sweetheart, etc.  
>  _ **Hinreißend:**_ German for stunning, enchanting, beautiful.
> 
> It'll probably be a while longer before I post another chapter for this. I've been neglecting my other stories :x


	5. Of Fireflies and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Cora's absence, Belle and Ross get to know each other better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a late update. (Sorry!) I kept getting carried away while I was editing and it turned into a hot mess, so I decided to basically rewrite the whole chapter.

Ross is standing in the doorway with a faint smile on his face. It’s not a smile for her, Belle decides. Just the kind of smile one has when they’ve heard good news, remembered something funny, or just finished a pleasant conversation with an old friend.

_“...Belle.”_

She notices he always says her name with the same unusual infliction every time. It sounds as though he is surprised to see her, or he cannot believe she is actually there— as if she’s an apparition only he can see. She figures it must either be his accent or the fact that they don’t know each other very well.

Nonetheless, Belle struggles to return his greeting, her script for the situation rendered ineffective in Cora’s absence.

“Please. Come in.” He nods.

It's not until now that Belle realizes he is leaning on a cane. She curses herself for gawking at his hand as it grips the handle.

“I’m expecting rain today.” He says with a small chuckle, finally stepping aside.

Belle enters the flat with a frown, because she doesn't understand what rain has to do with anything.

“My ankle.” He offers hurriedly as he locks the door. “It's... particularly troublesome when it rains.” Ross explains, hitching back down the hall to the studio.

“Right.” Belle nods stiffly.

She notices a new self-portrait as she walks in. Ross’ body is contorted into a position that looks terribly uncomfortable. His eyes look wide and fearful. The lines are more sharp and jagged than usual. The application of the paint is rough and patchy, with colors that make him look dull and sickly. Except for the red. There’s an intense, burning red on his ankle and his penis, which juts out from his body unnaturally, threateningly. Belle wonders why anyone would want to paint themselves in such a way.

“Please—” The word hits Belle's neck in the form of a warm breath, and she flinches at the realization that Ross has been standing behind her the whole time. “...Sit.”

“Y-yes.” Belle nods, blushing as she turns away from the painting. She almost feels guilty for looking at it. Its content seems terribly personal, like an entry in a private diary, and yet it is on display.

She sits stiffly on the armchair and watches as Ross rifles through his supplies, his hair veiling his face. Minutes go by and Belle gathers that Cora must not be at the studio at all, for if she was, she'd have come sweeping in to greet her by now. There are no other models lazing about either. Only her and Ross.

Belle clears her throat. “Uh… where is—”

“Cora and the others are sitting for a friend of mine this week.” Ross mumbles.

“Oh.” Is all Belle can manage.

“David Schäfer.” He informs more intelligibly. “He's doing a mural for our exhibition in the fall. …I'm sure he has no shortage of work, if you're interested.” He offers. “I could give you his information.”

“That uh, that would be very helpful, actually.” Belle nods again, smoothing out her skirts anxiously. She briefly recalls her first experience with Ross and considers whether or not she wants to endure that again with somebody else. “He's— is he uh…”

Ross pulls away from his workstation to look at her when she fails to finish the question. “...A what?” He asks.

Belle purses her lips and shrugs. She's not really sure. Is he strange? Will she be expected to pose nude for him, or clothed? Are his paintings as grotesque as the ones Ross produces? 

Ross looks at her with a baffled expression. “Is he a _what_ , dearie?” He snips impatiently.

“I—” Belle stammers, not expecting nor appreciating his brusque tone. “I suppose what I'm _trying_ to ask, is if he is a _nice man."_  She answers petulantly.

Belle immediately feels her chest tighten. She's never used such a tone of voice with a man before. Ross stares at her with raised brows and Belle doesn't know what to expect from him. Her father would surely punish her for such insolence, but Ross just scoffs and returns readying his supplies.

“He's a hell of a lot nicer than I am.”

Belle exhales deeply in relief and finds herself smiling.

“Much more handsome, too.” He adds.

Belle bites back a giggle and looks back at the self-portrait from earlier. As her eyes wander to the others scattered across the walls, she feels a sadness. They all look menacing. Each and every one.

“May I ask you a question?”

Ross takes a moment to adjust the header on his easel. “...Curious today, are we?” He teases and casts her a glance. Belle narrows her eyes at him and he smirks. “What would you like to know?”

“Why you paint yourself the way you do.”

Ross hesitates. His eyes wander across the walls, drifting from one drawing to the next. They return to Belle for a moment and he sighs. “Some people paint what they see, or what they want to see. But ah, I believe that if you look hard enough, you can see a person's essence. Their hopes and fears. Their soul.”

Belle furrows her brows in thoughtful consideration.

“I'm not particularly interested in naturalism.” Ross explains. “I seek to create something more intimate. I want people to see my portraits and understand how the subject was feeling in that moment.”

“What were you feeling when you did that one?” Belle asks quickly, pointing at the self-portrait that had grabbed her attention on the way in.

Ross studies his work from yesterday for a moment and smacks his lips. “I must not be a very good painter, if you have to ask.” He deflects with a chuckle.

“You do yourself differently than the others.” She observes. “Uglier.”

“Well, I'm not a terribly attractive man, now am I?” He grumbles.

“I don't think you terribly _homely_.” Belle offers, but she does not ask any more questions. She undresses and lies on the divan, waiting patiently for him to begin working.

By the time he does, it has begun raining. The pitter-patter comes tapping down steadily on the covered windows, making the atmosphere feel more intimate somehow. Such weather ought be driving everyone into their warm, dry homes, Belle thinks. But she no longer has a home. Not really, not anymore. She has no better place to take shelter in than Ross’ studio.

Belle looks at Ross’ ankle, suddenly consumed with a morbid curiosity. She wants to see it. Not just for the sake of it, no. But to see if it's as bad as his paintings make it seem. Based on his movements alone, Belle doesn't imagine that it bothers him much. Yet in every self-portrait, there seems to be so much negative attention brought to it. The colors are more intense, the lines scratchier.

She looks back to the portrait again, this time minding the _other_ part of his anatomy that has been painted the color of hate. She wonders what reason a man might have to resent that part of himself, for she'd only ever overheard Gaston speak highly of his.

In spite of herself, Belle's eyes drift over to Ross’ trousers. There isn't much to look at with the easel standing in the way, but the awareness that she's _trying_ to look sends a peculiar shiver down her spine and gives her gooseflesh. Belle feels her cheeks grow warm and suddenly feels the need to shift on the divan. Nibbling her lip, she scoots her hips down and presses her thighs together a little more firmly.

“You're uh, not from here.” Belle observes, looking for a distraction.

“Neither are you, dearie.” He says, trading his brush for his palette knife.

“May I ask where you come from?”

Ross grunts, scraping the instrument against his canvas in quick, jerking motions. “Scotland. Edinburghshire. Mining town.”

“My father's estate is in Dijon. Côte D’or.”

“Lovely area.” He mumbles flatly, and Belle cannot tell if he is being genuine or not.

“...You've been?”

“Passed through. Spent most of my time in Paris.”

“I've never been.” Belle mumbles. “My father wouldn't allow it.”

Ross puts the palette knife down and raises a brow at her. “Never?”

“I had thought about it. But Paris would have been too obvious.” Belle explains with a sneaky little smile. “And papa's German leaves much to be desired. Even if he were to track me here, he'd have a much harder time of it.” She laughs.

Ross scoffs, pleasantly surprised by her gall, and switches back to his paintbrush. “And how did _you_ learn German?” He asks, curious.

“Studying manuscripts with my governess.” She shrugs. “You?”

Ross thinks for a moment. “Baptism by fire, I'm afraid.”

“Could you tell me about it?” Belle asks, rolling over on the divan to face him better. “About Paris?”

His eyes seem to wander to her chest and his demeanor stiffens. Belle glances down at her breasts half expecting to find something she hasn't seen before. He slowly sets his paintbrush down again and clears his throat. “What… what would you like to know?”

Belle purses her lips in contemplation and shrugs. “Whatever you might like to share.”

“Well.” Ross wets his lips and thinks for a moment. “It was ah, _violent_.” He says with a shrug, his eyes finally returning to her face. “Politically, I mean. But… art was everywhere. Posters, books… beautiful prints you could buy for half a franc. Cinemas with moving pictures, theatres with boisterous music and dancing ladies who would kick their legs up so high you could see their petticoats.”

Belle closes her eyes and smiles as she imagines the thrilling sights he describes to her.

“But what I liked most were the lights—” Ross confesses. “Hundreds of thousands of street lamps everywhere. I liked to go for walks at night so I could admire the way they would reflect on the Seine. Looked like fireflies, flickering amidst the darkness as the river flowed.”

Belle pulls herself from her scene playing in her imagination and shifts upright to look at him. “Why'd you leave?”

“It just— wasn't for me.” Ross sighs. “All of those things were… noise, distractions.” He adds, returning to his painting.

“Would you ever go back?”

“To Paris? I suppose I wouldn't mind.”

“And to Scotland?”

Ross hesitates, then shakes his head. “I have no reason to go back there.”

“You have reasons _not_ to, you mean.” Belle translates and lies back down, a knowing grin tugging at her lips.

“Well, what about you?” Ross shoots back defensively. “Would _you_ go back?”

“Eventually...” Belle says. “But I want to have adventures first.” She explains with a mischievous smile. “I want to see the world instead of just reading about it.”

The studio falls silent for a moment while Ross continues painting. “...Why Vienna?” He finally asks.

Belle sighs. “I heard it was a place of many great, new ideas.”

“And is it everything you hoped?” He asks.

“Honestly?” Belle says, “No.”

Ross scoffs, amused by her candid response.

“But I think I let myself set my hopes too high.” She admits. “I’m beginning to realize now that the world outside isn't all adventure and excitement.”

“I can't say that I ever held such hopes for the world.” Ross sighs. “Easier that way, I think. No illusions to be lost.”

Belle rolls onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbow, her cheek rested on her palm. The movement attracts his gaze once more and Belle feels a heightened awareness of her body. The liberating feeling of being nude, the sensation of nothing but the air touching her skin. The way her breasts press against the surface of the divan. Belle decides she likes having Ross’ eyes on her, because he looks at her like one admires a sunset. “...But what are we, without those illusions?” She finally asks, and his eyes meet hers again. “Without our hopes and dreams?”

“Better off, I'd say.” Ross mutters.

Belle narrows her eyes at him. “I don't believe that. Your hope is what brought you here.” She argues.

“Aye? How's that?” He asks skeptically.

“You left your home in Scotland because you held onto the hope that there was something better out there for you.”

Ross doesn't say anything to this, and simply continues painting.

“You found hope in Paris. In the fireflies.”

He stops again and looks at Belle with a curious expression. She’s certain she can see the slightest trace of a smile tugging at his lips before he glances away and returns to his work. Belle gets back into position and closes her eyes, listening to the rain continuing to fall outside.

Several minutes pass, and there's a knock at the door. Belle finds the pattern of it is strange. Rather a handful of steady knocks in quick succession, there's a musical quality to it, like a little song. Ross smiles slightly and sets his brush down. Curious, Belle thinks— as far as she's seen, he is very wary of visitors and interruptions.

“I'll be right back.” He says softly, heading for the door. He doesn't suggest she put her robe back on like he usually does. Belle gears the front door crack open, and seconds later, Ross returns with a young girl of about twelve years. Holding the girl's hand is an even younger boy. They're incredibly thin, their skin darkened from prolonged exposure to the elements.

Belle reflexively tries to cover herself, but the children only smile and walk passed her, completely unfazed by her nudity as they make a beeline for the kitchen. She looks at Ross with a puzzled expression.

“Moraine and Baethan.” He says by way of explanation, his eyes searching the room for something. He pauses and plucks a blanket off of the pile of cushions on the floor, shaking whatever dust and debris off of it.

“They ah, don't have a home.” Ross explains quietly. “I try to keep my door and my cupboards open to them. Especially when the weather is unfavorable.”

“That... is very good of you.” Belle says slowly, wrapping her mind around this new information.

“Moraine refuses to go to the church or the poorhouse. Can't say I blame her, they… aren't kind to her people.” He frowns.

Belle immediately understands. Despite the thriving Jewish community in some of the city's districts, she's seen the signs and the pamphlets being circulated in others.

“They are good kids,” Ross says with one of the widest smiles Belle has seen on him yet. “Cora doesn't like to have them around, but as long as she is at David's…” He trails off and winks, and Belle feels a spark that spawns in her chest. It slowly drifts down to her belly, where it fizzles out.

“...Does she not care for children?” She asks.

Ross presses his lips together in thought. “She would like children of her own someday. I suppose it saddens her to see them. Creates a longing.”

Belles smiles weakly as she tries to empathize, but she cannot. “What about you?”

“I ah…” Ross’ eyes dart back to his canvas, the warm glow that has been radiating off his features suddenly extinguished. “I don't think I could bring a child into this world.”

Belle frowns and Moraine and Baethan return to the studio space. They've fetched bread and tea, and begin to make themselves comfortable.

“Danke, Herr Gold.” Moraine says with a little curtsy.

“Bitte sehr.” Ross bows.

The girl glares at Baethan for a moment, then jabs him with her elbow.

“Autsch!” He grunts. “... _Viele_ _danke_ , Herr Gold.” Baethan grumbles, looking away shyly.

“Bitte, mein Kind. Nichts zu danken!” Ross assures and bows again, this time with more dramatic flair.

Belle watches the exchange with a giggle and lies back down. Once the children are settled on the cushions, Ross drapes the blanket over their shoulders and crouches onto his knee before them. He whispers something to them Belle cannot make out, but his tone sounds comforting and reassuring.

He lets out a pained hiss he returns to his feet and takes his position at the easel again. The studio is silent once more, save for the sound of the children filling their tummies and fidgeting on the floor. In less than half an hour, the bread is gone, their cups are empty, and their eyes are closed, claimed by sleep. The rain grows heavier for a few minutes, the room darkening with it, then calms again moments later.

“Do you enjoy the rain?” Belle asks softly, peering at Ross through her eyelashes.

“...what?”

“Do you enjoy the rain?" She repeats. “...Other than your ankle, I mean.” She adds quickly, embarrassed for having forgotten.

“Well,” Ross chuckles, “in spite of my ankle, I do find the sound rather soothing.” He pauses, then nods toward the children. “When the rain comes, it brings Moraine and Baethan with it, and I know that they are safe. ...As much as they can be, at least. Should they not show up on a rainy day, I would worry for them.”

Belle watches the two children sleep for a moment and smiles. “I am glad they are here, then.”

“Moraine has proven herself to be a smart, resourceful girl so far.” Ross observes. “She takes good care of Bae.”

“What happened to their parents?”

“Moraine's mother died in childbirth. Her father was a peddler. Got consumption, I believe. And Bae… doesn't speak about his parents.”

Belle feels a sort of shame with herself. She had a home and a family back in France and she turned away from it. But Moraine and Baethan had no such luxury. No choice. Her dreams for freedom and adventure suddenly seem silly.

“What about you?” Ross asks, and Belle is caught off guard. “Do you enjoy the rain?”

“I uh… I like it for reading.” Belle says weakly, the ill feeling still in her heart.

“Do you read often?”

“I did.”

Ross frowns at this. “I still have those books, you know.” He finally says, squinting his eyes and going in tightly on his work with a tiny brush.

“Do you?” she asks, her eyes fixed on the floor.

He sets the brush down and pulls himself away from the easel to dig through the pile of papers, texts, and supplies on the desk behind him. He plucks a book from the mess, grabs his cane, and hitches over to Belle with a smirk on his face.

“Here.”

Belle hesitates, but cannot keep herself from smiling as she accepts it from him.

“You're a terrible sitter without it.” Ross winks. “Much too chatty.”

 

*****

 

He's been painting her for well over four hours now, her nose still buried in the book he'd given her. It stopped raining an hour ago. Moraine and Nathan have said their goodbyes and, after some protest from Ross, returned outside. Ross is putting the finishing touches on her portrait, but finds himself taking his time. Some part of him doesn't want to be finished for the day. He realizes he's already coming to enjoy his sitter’s company and doesn't want her to leave just yet.

“Doubt.” Ross finally says, interrupting the companionable silence. “Fear. Desperation.”

Belle’s eyes flutter away from the pages of her book and she tilts her head at him.

“...What I was feeling when I painted that.” He clarifies, nodding toward the self-portrait she'd pointed out earlier.

She smiles wanly, looking around the studio at his other paintings. “You must feel such things terribly often.”

Ross only scoffs and shakes his head.

“What about me?” Belle asks, closing her book and giving him her full attention. “What does my soul look like?” She's eyeing him intensely, her question a challenge.

He stares at her a moment, his lips pressed together as he tries to form a response. He thinks better of it however, and returns to his painting. “...You ask too many questions, dearie.”

Belle bites back a smile. “I think it terribly presumptuous of you, to be perfectly honest.” She says matter-of-factly. “You cannot know the first thing about me, yet you claim to see my soul and paint how I feel.”

Ross blinks owlishly at her, his brush now dangling loosely between his fingers.

“You don't get to decide how I feel.” She declares with her chin up and a confident smile on her face. _“Only I do.”_

He chuckles uncomfortably, guiltily. “...Perhaps then, it would be more accurate to say that I paint how you make _me_ feel.”

At this, a beautiful pink blush blooms across her cheeks, her chest, and a few other places along her bare skin. Ross looks away, returning to his canvas.

“After all,” he continues and clears his throat, “how much of who we are is at the mercy of how others perceive us?”

Belle nibbles her lip pensively, fighting back another smile she cannot deny herself. She's never been asked such a peculiar question.

“...I suppose that is why I left my home.” She finally answers. “My father and my intended had rather strong perceptions of me that I did not care for.”

Ross pauses to peer over his easel. He understands too well.

“I always wanted to be brave,” Belle continues, “but I was never given the opportunity around them. I suppose in that way, they had control over who I was.”

Ross offers a soft hum in agreement and continues painting.

“Is that why you cannot go back?” Belle ventures a guess. “You do not like the person you are at home?”

“...Aye. Something like that.” Ross mumbles. His brush hovers uselessly over the canvas because he's running out of details to refine. Running out of excuses for her to linger in his studio any longer.

“The first time I came here to sit for you, I was terrified.” Belle says, her eyes cast off thoughtfully into the distance.

Ross recalls her first visit and lets out a chuckle. “I remember.”

“But then you told me that I was brave.” She shifts on the divan a little and looks back at him. She’s tracing her finger along the spine of the book, and it bumps ever so slightly along the letterpressing. “As much as I have always wanted to be brave, it wasn't until then that I actually started to believe that I was.”

Ross stops trying to paint and finds his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He thinks it is a ludicrous suggestion, that he of all people could make her feel brave.

“I really ought to find myself more honest work.” She adds with a chuckle. “But I’m coming to find that I like the person I am when I am here.”

A satisfied little smirk tugs at Ross’ lips. He understands the feeling. He feels it himself around Cora, around Jeremias, and now, as he's beginning to realize, around _her_. “And who is that person?” He dares to ask, plunging his brush into a can of linseed oil and swirling it about.

Belle lets out a contented sigh. “...She’s happier. She says what is on her mind. Strangers see her without a thread on her body, yet she does not care. She may not yet belong, but this does not bother her.”

Ross scoffs and grabs a clean rag off of his desk. “I think I might envy her, then.” He says and begins swiping his brush against the rag, his brows furrowing as he inspects the bristles for any traces of paint.

Belle giggles. “If leaving my home so that I can be the person I wish to be makes me brave, then surely you are brave as well.” She says with a smile.

Ross doesn't know how to respond, because no one has ever called him brave before either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** German In This Chapter:* **   
>  _**Danke/Viele Danke:** (dahn-kuh, fee-luh dahn-kuh) Thank you; thank you very much_   
>  _**Bitte sehr:** (bit-tuh zair) You're very welcome_   
>  _**Autsch!:** Ouch!_   
>  _**Nichts zu danken:** (nihtz tsu dahn-ken) Don't mention it (literally, "nothing to thank for")_   
>  _**mein Kind:** (mine kint) my child_
> 
> _ It wasn't uncommon for artist's studios to become safe havens for homeless youth and other outcasts, and Schiele's was no exception. Being that this is more of a woobie/spinner take on Gold's character, I can totally imagine him taking these kids in as if they were his own. The reason why Gold has no kids in this ‘verse will explained in future chapters, but it has to do with what was revealed of his past in chapter 4. That being said, I wanted to use Bae and Moraine for the role of these children instead of Hansel and Gretel. _
> 
> _ *fyi, I'm not a native speaker- just learning. So if you catch any bad German, or things that don't fit an Austrian/Viennese dialect, please point it out so I can make corrections! _


	6. Death and the Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update again. I've been totally consumed with RSS all month :x

Frau Lucas— or Oma, as she insists on being called— has been generous enough to let Belle stay at the inn as long as she wishes, in exchange for her help with the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Every time Belle tries to pay the woman with the money she’s earned from modelling, she refuses and comes up with some other kind of chore for her to do instead, and Belle’s found that Oma possesses no shortage of creativity where chores are concerned. She’s been able to save up quite a few kronen as result, and thinks that perhaps if Oma will not accept money, she might accept a gift instead. She just doesn’t know what.

With all of her chores for the day done, Belle’s settled into her seat in the kitchen with a book. She’d been reluctant to leave Ross’ studio the other day, loath to part from the book he’d shared with her, but he insisted she take it home. _“Herr Hutmacher seems to think I have time for reading and expects me to indulge him the next time he visits, so I will require a full synopsis of the plot and all of its themes,”_ he’d told her, and Belle could only giggle and accept.

She pulls herself from the pages of her book when Romy pulls out the seat across from her at the table. She’s wearing extra rouge on her cheeks and grinning ear to ear.

“How do I look?”

“You look beautiful, Romy.” Belle smiles. “As always.” She adds, returning to her book.

Romy leans across the table, darting a furtive glance around the room. “...What do you think of this dress? Is it too much?”

Belle wrinkles her nose and closes her book, accepting the fact that her reading time is effectively over. She studies the details on Romy’s dress— it’s cut closer to her figure and has some finer lace details, but it’s otherwise not much different than what she usually wears. She opens her mouth to compliment her on it, but cuts herself off and furrows her brows. “...Too much for what?”

“Dr Förstner is visiting today!” Romy bubbles excitedly. “He should be here any minute!”

“A doctor?” Belle asks, her eyes wide with concern. “Why? Is— Is Oma ill?”

“No!” Romy dismisses with a laugh. “Oma’s healthy as an ox. He’s coming to see me, and to do examinations on us girls.”

“...Oh.” Is all Belle can manage. As far as she can tell, the inn is in no position to be hiring doctors.

“We met while I was modeling for Herr Schäfer last year.” She explains with a smile. “He was seeing his wife about her baby, and he offered to examine me. I told him if he was so interested, he could visit the inn like everybody else.”

Belle bites back a smile, not sure if it would be impolite to laugh. “I take it he did?”

“Mhmm!” Romy nods and scoots to the edge of her seat. “As it turned out, he was completely serious— I took him to my room and he started digging through his bag and asking if anything ailed me!” She wets her lips and leans in to whisper, “I examined him afterward. We’ve had a stitch ever since.”

She pulls away with a wink and Belle raises her brows. “Does Oma know?”

“Well, all of us ladies have our favorite johns. Sometimes Oma worries that we might get too attached to them. But Viktor is different. Sometimes when he comes to see me, we just hold hands and speak of things like philosophers do until sunrise…” Romy drums her fingers on the tabletop and sighs.

“That must be wonderful.” Belle says with a weak smile.

“I told him about you.” She says, sliding a hand across the table to give Belle’s a comforting squeeze. “He can see you if you want. He is concerned for you, after hearing of your travels.”

“Oh.” Belle nods slowly, feeling a flare of anxiety ignite in her stomach. “Yes, that would probably be for the best.”

Romy fusses with her skirts for a moment until a tall, blond-haired man appears in the doorway.

“Fräulein Lucas.” He greets with a nod.

Her face brightens and she rushes over to meet him. “Viktor!”

He takes her hand and, with a small bow, presses a kiss to it. Romy smiles so brilliantly at him, and Belle thinks she looks so stunning. She tries to recall the last time anyone made her smile so widely.

It was just the other day, she realizes.

Herr Gold had made her smile.

  


Dr Förstner calls all of the ladies into one of the bedrooms one at a time. Some of them he keeps longer than others, but he calls Romy in last and keeps her by far the longest. The pair of them finally emerge and he invites Belle into the makeshift examination room. She slips into a mild panic until Romy assures her that she’ll go in and keep her company.

Belle undresses for the doctor without hesitation, no longer finding herself concerned about strangers seeing her in the nude. Viktor studies her body intently, as though it is a manuscript he must translate. He checks her skin for rashes and asks her a line of questions that cover everything from aches and pains to fits of melancholy, until landing on the topic of her menses— something Belle is delighted to now have a word for.

Viktor produces a strange device from his bag and hands it to Romy before excusing himself with a tight-lipped smile. Belle blushes when her friend explains what it is for— a small piece of molded rubber attached to a string. When Romy demonstrates how to use it, Belle has to quickly excuse herself and escape to her room to cry. She doesn’t understand why at first, but it soon becomes clear— She realizes what a stranger she has been to her own body.

Belle can recall the countless times she’d dared to wonder about her body, only for her father to deny her that knowledge. To make her feel guilty and ashamed for asking. For even thinking about it. She knew where children came from, of course. She knew what sex was. But it had never occurred to her that she could ever have any sort of choice in the matter, or that it could ever be enjoyable for her. That she would ever want to engage without the sole purpose of creating a child.

She shelves away the anger she feels toward her father and toward Gaston, because she is nothing if not curious. Curious and, she certainly hopes, _brave._ She lies in her bed and strokes a finger over her vulva, a pleasurable tingle spreading across her skin. It’s nothing she hasn’t done before, but tonight she intends to go further. She rubs at her folds and applies gentle pressure to the bud at her crest until the skin grows wet and slick. She lifts her head up to look at herself and finds her curls glistening with the product of her arousal.

Resting her head back down, Belle slips a finger between her folds, seeking out the entrance that until this afternoon had remained overlooked. She finds it and slowly pushes inside. It feels strange and uncomfortable, rather than pleasurable. But she continues on, familiarizing herself with her body one stroke at a time. She adds another finger and gradually settles into a comfortable rhythm, the strange feeling becoming overtaken by a pleasant one.

Her fingers glide over a particularly sensitive spot and she inhales sharply. Her hips jerk forward involuntarily and she rubs her fingers over the spot again. She’s startled by the sound of herself whimpering in response.

An image flashes into her mind’s eye. Of Herr Gold. His smile. His hand resting on her arm. His voice, as he asks, _“What do you need, Belle?”_

He heart is pounding and the sensation in her core is building into something more intense than she’s ever felt before. It’s incredible and terrifying and as she peers over the precipice she suddenly feels unprepared. Belle slips her fingers out of her body and burrows under her blanket.

Next time, she’ll go further. Next time, when she approaches the edge, she’ll jump.

  
  


*****

  


Ross is sitting in the armchair in his studio. It’s dark outside and all of his models have gone home for the evening, leaving the flat eerily silent. He hasn’t seen Cora in almost three days, which is unusual, even for a spirit as restless as she. No matter where she spends her days, she always returns by nightfall. Something must have happened to her, Ross worries, but he pushes the thought aside because he knows she doesn’t like to be fussed over. And so he continues to sit, hunched over with his elbows rested upon his knees, his leg bouncing as his foot taps the floor incessantly.

He’s slept poorly the past two nights, without her to curl up next to. It’s not so much that he needs her presence as much as he loathes not knowing. Not knowing where she is, what she is doing, if she is alright. Over the year since she moved in, he’s quickly learned to leave her be, but this is different. He can feel it.

He finds himself beginning to nod off, his head drooping to his shoulder only to bounce back up in vigilance. Outside, hooves clack along the otherwise silent streets, ferrying the district's more nocturnal subjects to their destinations. Just as sleep is about to claim Ross for good, there’s a sound outside. He sits upright and listens, trying to ignore the way his heart pounds with anticipation. It’s her. It must be her.

Finally, it is.

Ross hears the sound of a key sliding into the lock, twisting and clicking open. He turns his head to look down the hall in time to see the door swing open. Cora doesn’t notice him right away. She quietly shuts and locks the door before removing her coat and hanging it on the rack. She pauses, yawns, and rubs her eyes, then finally turns to start down the hall. She flinches when her eyes land on him, waiting.

“Ross.”

“Wha-what— Cora—” He stammers, pushing himself out of the chair with his cane. “Sweetheart, where have you been?”

“At my father’s.” She says quietly.

Ross breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve been worried sick.” He says, pressing a kiss to her cheek and pulling her in for an embrace.

“Sorry.”

“No, no.” He hushes, “I’m just glad you’re safe. But—” He pulls away and looks at her with a puzzled expression. “Your father’s? Why?” He asks. “Is everything alright?”

Cora shrugs. “It’s nothing, it’s fine.”

“You’re certain?” He checks. “It’s just— you haven’t— Well, your _father._ ” He says pointedly, hiking his brows.

“I know.” Cora nods and sighs. “Look, I’m very tired, Ross. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“So… there _is_ something.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She groans and plants her hands on his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

“Right.” Ross chuckles, shaking his head.

When they get to the bedroom, Ross finds Cora takes longer to get ready than usual. She hovers around the armoire, staring into it contemplatively, occasionally tossing glances at him over her shoulder. He asks her again if she is alright, and she insists again that she is. Finally, she joins him in their bed, curling her arms around his chest and pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“I love you.” She whispers, but her infliction is different. It sounds less like a declaration and more like an assertion.

Ross turns around to look at her and smiles weakly. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

At some point before he’s able to drift off to sleep, Cora wriggles away from him, mumbling something about it being too hot.

  


_“Doch!”_

Ross stirs at the sound of Cora’s voice. He blinks into wakefulness, finding the room still pitch dark. He remains still, listening for her movements. The doors of the armoire creak open, and Cora huffs. He feigns sleep for a moment until he can no longer bear it.

“...It’s Berger.” He sighs. “Isn’t it?”

The shuffling stops.

“How do you—”

“He stopped by the other day.” Ross mumbles, sitting up. “He was calling after you.”

Cora ignites the kerosene lamp on the chiffonier, filling the bedroom with a warm glow. “You knew?”

“Well— yes. He… he told me his intentions, and I showed him the door.” Ross explains with a shrug.

Cora sighs and looks at him with a pained expression, and Ross climbs out of bed to join her at the armoire. He rests his hands on her shoulders and rubs them along her arms affectionately.

“Sweetheart, come on. What are we doing, hmm?” He whispers, planting a kiss on the nape of her neck. “Come back to bed.”

“I… I can’t do that, Ross.” She sighs, shrugging him off. She continues rummaging through the room, plucking her garments off of the floor and out of the armoire.

Ross feels his heart beginning to pound. “Cora, what’s going on?”

“Don’t you understand?” She snaps. “I’m to be wed.”

“I-I— sweetheart, _please!_ ” He reaches for her arm, but never quite grasps it. “You don’t have to do that! You know you can stay here. With me. Always. You said that— you told me you were happy!”

“I was.” She says, averting his gaze. “I have been.”

Ross searches her eyes for a trace the woman he loves, but she’s nowhere to be found. “But we— we have love.”

Cora closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Love is a luxury a girl like me cannot afford, Ross.”

“I-It’s about the money?!” Ross asks desperately, his voice high-pitched and weak. “You— we don’t _need_ that to be happy, sweetheart. We _are_ happy. Here. Like this.” He stammers for a moment. “I-I’ve been receiving more commissions, things are getting better!”

“I’m sorry, Ross.” She mumbles, stuffing her things into a bag.

“What is it? What did he say to you? Let me talk to—”

“It’s already been arranged.” She informs him. “He says I can visit you for—”

 _“Visit!?”_ Ross cries. “Sweetheart, without you, I-I’ll turn to dust!”

“You have your art, Ross. I need to do something for myself.”

The worry in Ross’ heart transforms into pain and anger. “This isn’t about _you!_ ” He snarls. “It’s about _him_ getting what he wants!”

“Yes.” Cora admits quietly. “But now I have an opportunity to get what _I’ve_ always wanted.”

“Always wanted!?” Ross scoffs, not believing what he's hearing. “Cora, you _hate_ the bourgeoisie! Now you’re going to marry into it!?”

“I never hated them, Ross.” She says flatly. “I _envied_ them.”

“So this is it, then? You're just going to— to sell your heart to the highest bidder?”

Cora pauses from her hasty packing to look him in the eyes. “This is me refusing to accept any less than I deserve. Seizing an opportunity to have a life beyond—” she gestures vaguely around the room with disdain, _“...this_.”

“So the other night— that was just one lie after the other?”

“Oh, Ross. Baby...” Cora whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “Everything I said was true. Every word.” She pecks him on the cheek and pulls away with an empty smile. “But... one's trajectory should always be up. Surely you understand?”

“Aye. And I'm down.” Ross grunts, his gaze falling to the floor.

“This wasn't an easy decision for me, Ross.” She says in her defense, hoisting up her luggage and heading out the room.

“Because you know it's the _wrong_ decision,” he mutters, grabbing his cane and following after her. He reaches to help her carry her bag, but stops himself. _She's leaving him_. “You're going to regret this, darling, how can you not see that?”

“No, stop— Don't—” She huffs and spins around, giving him a bitter stare. “I want to have _children_ , Ross.” She mutters.

He rolls his eyes and groans, but the truth is that he feels as though all of his insides have been carved out of him, the remaining cavity filled with a shame that sickens him.

“Even _if_ you could give me that,” she argues, “what kind of a life would this be for them? Hmm?”

“Better than mine and yours!” He snaps. “Need I remind you—” He continues, pulling back his nightshirt and revealing his scars to her.

Cora turns away, refusing to look not because she is disgusted, but because she knows he’s right. “I want my children to have a _future_ , Ross. Something I never had.” She tells him, carrying her bag over to the front door.

Stunned into silence, Ross watches as she unlocks the door and drags her luggage through the threshold.

She looks at him hesitantly, then glances away. “I'm sorry, Ross.” She mumbles.

He stands still as the front door closes, plunging the flat into silence once again.


	7. Two Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross struggles to make peace with Cora's departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valerie = Cruella.  
> She’s a recent Czech immigrant, hence her broken speech.

Ross knocks impatiently on the heavy red door of the Schäfer’s home. There’s some shuffling about on the other side before he’s greeted by Mary Margaret’s voice.

“Just a minute!” She calls from inside.

“Take your time.” He sighs with petty annoyance, much to quietly for her to hear.

The door swings open a minute later, revealing Mary Margaret with the baby in her arms. She looks exhausted, but happy nonetheless. Ross is certain Mary Margaret grew up with every expectation that she would have midwives and house staff to help her care for any children she might have. But that isn’t the life of an artist, certainly not ones like he and David. She waved goodbye to such comforts when she married him, and while he might pity her naivete toward life amongst the city's lesser half, he has to admire her heart. Mary Margaret chose love. Unlike Cora.

“...Herr Gold.” Mary Margaret nods, putting on an uneasy smile.

Ross wets his lips. “Frau Schäfer.”

“What do you—” She cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Hi.” She says, smiling more convincingly this time. “Why don't you come in? David's in the studio.”

“Thank you.” He nods curtly, stepping inside. He looks at the baby in her arms with a smile. “Hello, Emma.” He says, poking a finger at her belly. She babbles and reaches for him, and Ross smiles.

“Things have been a bit chaotic here.” Mary Margaret admits with a chuckle, starting down the hall. “Everyone’s been in and out, preparing for the exhibition.”

Ross doesn’t say anything, his smile slipping away as he follows her inside. He hasn’t put much thought into the exhibition, despite all of Cora’s encouragement. If he’s honest, he always thought it was a bit of a dog and pony show, and a pathetic one at that— at least as far his circles were concerned. His colleagues were all vying for approval from the artistic elites and the Academy. No matter where he went— London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague— there was always some new school of artists intent on showing the world the full potential of what art could be. But quite frankly, Ross never gave half a rat’s arse whether or not people thought his art was any good. As long as he was getting enough sales and commissions to keep food on his table, he was happy.

Happy enough.

Mary Margaret gives him another uneasy smile as they step into the studio where David is cleaning his brushes. He hears them walk in and smiles, walking over and planting an affectionate kiss on his wife’s lips, and another on his daughter’s head, before the two scurry away again.

“Ah, Ross!” David looks at Ross with a broad, genuine smile. “It’s been far too long. How are you?”

“Fine.” He answers listlessly.

“How's Cora?”

Ross clears his throat. “...Engaged to be married.” He says as he steps further into the studio space. He immediately turns his focus to the rows of canvases along the wall.

David's expression freezes as he tries to decide whether he should be offering his congratulations or condolences. “When’s... the big day?” He asks tentatively.

Ross stops thumbing through the paintings and clicks his tongue. “That’s a _lovely_ question.” He declares, spinning around with the snap of his fingers. “Perhaps you could ask our _esteemed friend_ Herr Berger the next time he drops by to express his grievances against the Secession.”

David blinks. “Excuse me?”

“She’s marrying Berger.”

David’s expression dampens and he looks at his colleague helplessly. “Ross. ...I— I’m sorry.”

Ross scowls and goes back to browsing his work. “Well it’s hardly your fault now, is it?”

“No, but...” David furrows his brows and steps closer. _“Why?”_ He asks in a whisper.

“Oh, something about her father’s farmland being the only place this side of the Donau where he can set up shop for his steel operation.”

“Ach.” David frowns. “I’ve gotten more than a few offers on this place myself. But after how hard Mutti and I had to fight to hold onto it? I’ll die before I let some industrialist turn it into a factory.”

Ross sighs and moves to the next pile. “Yes well, I’m afraid the only loyalties Herr Mϋller has are to his Schnapps.” He mutters. He quickly thumbs through the canvases and spins on his heels to face David again. “Was she here?” He asks abruptly.

David reels back, furrowing his brows. “...When?”

“Last week.” Ross clips. “I’m damnably curious to know if there's anything else she's been lying to me about.”

“I—” David clears his throat. “Yeah. She was in on Tuesday.” He peers around the studio, his eyes widening as they land on something. “Here—” He says, snapping a finger and walking up to one of the canvases he has set out to dry. “We worked on this.”

Ross studies the painting with a mixture of awe and anger. Cora looks beautiful, her auburn hair stylized as a rhythmic stream of sinuous lines and spirals, accented with gold leaf. She proudly holds up a platter, gazing reverently at something which has yet to be executed— a blank area waiting to be filled with a severed head.

“Salome.” Ross observes.

“That's right.”

 _“...Fitting.”_ He says bitterly. Of all the models he and David work with, who better to play the part of the femme fatale than his beloved Cora? He just can't decide if he's her Herod— a means to an end, or her John— the object of some perverse affection of hers.

A little smile tugs at David's lips. “You know... If you aren’t busy this afternoon, I think you would make a great John the Baptist.” He chuckles.

Ross huffs out a bitter laugh. “Indeed.”

“Honestly. Would you mind?” David nods toward the canvas he’d been working on before he arrived. “I'm waiting for the latest coat to dry.”

Ross looks around the studio and shrugs. “Where would you like me to sit?”

David picks the canvas up and surveys the room for a moment. “Usual seat should be fine.” He smiles, carrying it over to his easel.

 

 

“So how are you holding up?” David asks, peeking around the canvas to look Ross in the eyes. “You two were always so… I don’t know, inseparable.” He shrugs, returning to his work.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Ross sighs. After a moment, he scoffs. “Part of me always expected it, honestly. I mean, look at me. What she ever saw, I will never understand. I’m lame, beaten, used up, old—”

“Ach!” David shakes his head and Ross rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need to anyone’s pity. “Alright, alright.” David laughs, “So you are lame and banged up and older than most of us. _But—_  you are also brilliant!”

Ross tries not to glow under his praise. David is the kind of man Ross wishes he was. Warm, kind, open. Likeable. David may be much younger than he is, but Ross respects the man and the thought that he sees anything admirable in him is a comfort, as much as he hates to admit it.

“Prolific, passionate, experienced, wise ...Handsome?” David continues, wiggling his brows.

A little smirk tugs at Ross’ lips. “...Now I know you’re full of it.”

“You have a great face for portraiture!” David insists, “The angles, the way the light hits your features. It's very intense, expressive.” He puts his brush down and takes a step back to evaluate his progress. “Rembrandt and Caravaggio would have been very lucky to paint a face like yours.”

Ross allows himself a tiny smile at this, but quickly wipes it away. “My art is suffering.” He confesses, trying to change the subject. “Nothing I do seems to satisfy me. I’m becoming frustrated.”

“I think that’s understandable.” David shrugs, picking his brush back up and continuing to work. “You and Cora were quite the team. But you’ll find something or someone else to inspire you. You just need a new perspective.”

“It’s not just Cora though.” Ross mumbles. “I’ve felt myself slipping the past few months.”

“It happens. But you’ve got the soul of a true artist, Ross. You’ll come back from it.”

He considers this for a moment. He doesn’t hate _everything_ he’s done the past few months. Looking back on the past few weeks, he can actually recall a few pieces he’s pleased with. There’s the charcoal he did of Belle, the commission for Herr Hutmacher, a painting of Belle—

He suddenly feels his mouth go dry and clears his throat. “Have you—” He sighs and wets his lips. “H-have you ever had a young woman by the name of Belle come by? To sit for you?”

“Belle?” David pouts and hums thoughtfully. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“She came to sit for me a few weeks ago. Comes by quite often.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I gave her your information last week. Told her you might have more work for her. Curious, is all.”

David frowns. “Could you describe her?”

“Petite.” He shrugs. “Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes… An accent you wouldn’t soon forget. ...She’s ah, French.” He explains with a cough.

David peeks at him from behind the easel and smiles. “...Nope.” He says, disappearing once again. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

 

*****

 

Ross’ visit to the Schäfer’s yesterday has left him with more questions than answers. He was hoping to catch Cora in a lie. To find out she never stepped foot in David’s studio last week at all, but had instead been plotting and scheming to leave him all along. It would make it so much easier for him to let her go. But now he just feels more confused.

His eyes dart back and forth between the two women sprawled out on his floor, and the drawing on his easel. He’s producing shite today again. The lines he puts down lack certainty, and his drawing altogether is nothing more than a mockery of the scene before him. Valerie and Ursula are women in love, lit from within by a flame they each ignite in the other when they touch.

He and Cora had such a flame, or so he thought.

Ross tears the paper from his easel and scrunches it up. _“Verdammt!”_ He hurls the balled-up drawing across the room and it lands on the floor, joining the pile of all his other abandoned efforts from the past week. The two women finally stop caressing each other in favor of sitting up and glaring at him. He tries to ignore them, fixing his gaze on the floor and kicking a crate of supplies. The few inches the heavy thing moves aren’t even close to worth the pain that shoots up his leg, causing him to yelp in pain. The whole display is more embarrassing than anything else.

“It is incredible,” Valerie scoffs and leans into Ursula's ear. “So much anger in such little man...”

“Shut up!” Ross hisses, pointing his stick of charcoal at her threateningly. Both women let out a snort of laughter that makes him fume even more.

“Do not worry. I would be angry, too.” Valerie pouts, taking a feigned kind of pity on him. “If I were man who cannot draw, cannot paint, cannot keep woman, cannot— how you say— _get it up.”_

“Valerie!” Ursula says through a giggle, giving her a shove. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds.”

“Eh,” Valerie shrugs and stretches over to her pile of clothes, searching for her cigarette case. It’s an ornately engraved silver piece, an artifact from the comfortable life she’d left behind in Prague’s Dejvice district.

“You know,” Ross warns, “your _friend_ has a point.”

Valerie tilts her head back and laughs, then lights her cigarette. “You want to threaten me? I get you soap box so you can look into my eyes when you do it. _...Little man.”_

Ross clenches his jaw and lets out a huff. He should have fired Valerie the first time she started with the comments about his height and fragile ego, but he's not too proud to admit that he's a lonely man, and he finds himself enjoying her and Ursula's company for reasons that defy his comprehension.

“See, Ulla?” Valerie says, nodding toward him with an amused grin. “What will he do? _Nothing.”_

Ross relaxes his jaw and exhales slowly. She’s right. He won’t do a damned thing.

“Alright, I’m sorry.” Ursula sighs. “Sore subject, but... _Berger?”_ She says, cringing as she says the name. Her forehead wrinkles from the way she raises her brows. “The same Berger who tried to pay off your landlord to kick you two out? And when that failed, reported you for harboring unregistered prostitutes?”

“Aye, that’s the one!” Ross says bitterly, dropping his charcoal into his tin and readying another sheet of paper on his easel. Perhaps he’ll have better luck with crayon today.

“Well, you seem to be taking it well.” She says dryly, eyeing the crumpled up drawings and deserted canvases that litter the floor. Several of Cora’s portraits have been torn off the walls and ripped to pieces, and one unlucky canvas seems to have been stabbed at least twenty times with a palette knife. “You really loved her, didn't you?”

“Well, I wouldn't let her live here with me if I hated her, now would I?” He snarls, and Ursula rolls her eyes.

“You waste your time,” Valerie says, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“And _you—_ ” Ross steps over to her and plucks it from her lips, “waste your money.”

“Hej— what I use my kronen for is not your business,” she snips, taking it back.

“Ah...” he chuckles, wagging a finger at her. “And what I spend my _time_ on is none of _yours.”_

“Fair enough.” She shrugs and puffs on her cigarette.

Ross waits, folding his arms and raising his brows expectantly.

 _“But I tell you—”_ She starts up again and Ross can't help but smile at the impending dose of unwarranted advice. “Cora is no good. Can _smell_ it on her. Like corpse rotting from inside out.” She pauses and exhales a ring of smoke. “...You should get dog.” She says with sudden decisiveness. “They smell rotting flesh from mile away.”

Ross stops rifling for a crayon and narrows his eyes at her, bewildered. “What in the _hell_ are you talking about? What the hell am I going to do with a fucking _dog?!”_

She wags her smoking hand about as she arrives at an explanation. “You don’t have such problem to begin with if you have dog. Cora works for you first time, dog growls, and you know—  _Cora is no good._ ” She puffs out a ring of smoke and wrinkles her nose. “Send her packing before you get penis involved.”

In his emotionally compromised state, Ross doesn’t think a guard dog for his heart sounds like too bad of an idea. Not that he’ll admit to it.

“...Just suggestion.” Valerie says with a shrug after his lack of response.

“Well, in case it wasn’t clear: I don’t pay you to make suggestions,” he grumbles, finally putting crayon to paper.

“You should,” She snickers, a sly smile shaping her lips. “I can teach you how to please woman— no dick necessary. Is that not right, Ulla?”

Ursula snorts. “I think that is the least of Ross’ problems.”

Ross clenches his fist and breaks his crayon in two. “I could _please_ her just fine!”

“You’re so smart,” Valerie chuckles, leaning in to peck Ursula on the cheek. “This is why I love you.” She looks back to Ross and shakes her head. “My husband— thought same thing.”

“Oh? You mean the one you _murdered?”_ Ross points out, digging through his tin for another crayon that hasn’t already been reduced to a nub.

Valerie draws back and puts a hand over her heart. “It was accident.”

“Sure it was.”

Abandoning appearances, she shrugs her shoulders and points at him with her cigarette. “I make it look like one. Police in Praha… very stupid. See no difference.”

Ross rolls his eyes and looks at Ursula. “And you sleep next to this woman every night?”

“Quite soundly.” She nods.

“See?” Valerie drapes an arm around Ulla’s shoulder. “Because I kill man, she knows I can protect her.” She smiles, leaning in and nuzzling her neck.

“So you’re saying—” Ross scoffs and resumes drawing, “I should have _killed_ Herr Berger?”

 _“Jistý._ ...If you want, I can show you how to make it look like accident too.” She offers boastfully. Her expression suddenly darkens and she hunches forward. “But I will be honest to you, Herr Gold— because you amuse me. Cora… she leave you either way.”

Ross groans and stares blankly ahead. “So are you saying she was just a good liar, then?”

“No, no. You do not understand. She loves you. But she leave you still. Such is the cruel bitch that is life.” She laughs and shakes her head. “You men, so naive.”

Ross groans and rolls his eyes. “Ursula, what the hell is she talking about?”

“Women like Cora are raised early on to forget about love. Marry for money, marry for status. Something silly romantic men like you don't understand.”

Ross raises his brows and blinks repeatedly in disbelief. _“I'm_ silly and romantic?”

Valerie and Ulla look at each other for a moment and burst into laughter. “...Yes!”

He scowls. Silly? Ross Gold is not silly and romantic, he thinks. Ross Gold is… sensible. Hardened by the heartless world around him. Dark, even. And romantic? He’s anything but. Unloved and unloving. An enemy of love, and Cora had been his ally.

“I think Cora loved you.” Ursula finally says to comfort him, “but to her, the money and status is more important. I’m sorry Ross, but I don’t think you ever stood a chance.”

“Then what is the goddamned point!?” He snaps, giving his easel a shove. It's such a pointless act, doing nothing to quench the flame of frustration in his chest. He takes a deep breath to compose himself, and the frustration turns to sorrow. “Why bother getting attached to somebody just to… abandon them?” He slouches his shoulders and sulks across the studio to plop into the armchair.

“Well if I remember correctly, you never asked for her hand...” Ursula says. “Can’t blame the girl for moving o—”

“Of course I didn’t ask for her hand! She never wanted that!” Ross blurts as the frustration returns for a fleeting moment, leaving him again as quickly as it came. “We were just… fine the way things were,” he mutters under his breath, not sounding the least bit convinced of it himself.

“She must think about children.” Valerie says. “Place like this— no good.”

“She doesn't even _like_ children!”

“Ne, she does not like _street vermin_ you let in and feed like your own.” Valerie says, pointing in the air with her cigarette. “Woman must think about _her_ children. But me? I decide very quick, no children.”

“I don’t understand.” Ross sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I asked her: _‘Are you happy, sweetheart?’_ And she gave me every assurance that she was.”

Valerie plucks another cigarette from her case and offers it to him. After a moment's hesitation, he tucks it between his lips and leans in so she can light it. He smokes in silence in for a moment, his thumb rubbing over the crayon in his other hand while his eyes scan over the portraits of Cora that remain on the walls.

“When she didn't come back from David's the first night… It was like I could sense something was wrong, you know? I was going to visit and check on her, but I told myself no— she likes her space, leave it, she will come back when she’s ready… And now— And now...”

Ross’ lip quivers and he curls in on himself. The feeling is back. The emptiness. The shame. He takes a series of heaving breaths until the overwhelming panic subsides.

“...Now she’s gone...” He exhales slowly. His shoulders ease a little and he takes another deep breath. “...Now’s she’s gone.”

“See? It is okay.” Valerie hushes, patting a hand on his lap. “You will meet another woman. Maybe next one will be more young, bigger breasts, not so tall…” She snorts, “Next to her, you might almost feel like real man.”

“Have you any idea how many women I’ve _met_ over the years?” Ross sighs. “Cora was… she was just different.”

Valerie scowls. “Like I say— you waste your time on that one.”

Ross rolls his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“Listen, Ross.” Ulla says. “You just need to take your heartbreak and put it into your art. _Suffer_ for the art, like the rest of your colleagues.”

“Oh, that's original.” He scoffs, carelessly throwing his crayon across the room. It strikes the wall and mars one of Cora's portraits with a harsh black line.

“David produced some of his _best_ work while he was holding a torch for Mary Margaret.” Ursula points out. “That is all.”

 _“Exactly!”_ Valerie chimes in. “David's work now? Nothing special.”

“And Mal?” Ulla adds, “The work she did after her beloved Ružička was wed to that Stephan— some of the most inspired pieces I've ever seen.”

Ross presses the heels of his palms over his eyes and groans, slouching back into his chair. “Mal Fiala has not produced a single canvas in years.” He reminds them.

“Ich weiß...” Ulla sighs. “It is a tragedy.”

“Better to make no art than bad art, I say.” Valerie shrugs. “Or worse—  _so-so art.”_ She adds sourly. “This is why now, we sit for _you,_ Herr Gold. Ulla and I, we follow the talent.” She says proudly, making another dramatic gesture with her smoking hand. “People think we follow the kronen, but this is not true. We do not sit for just anybody. We have taste. Standards.”

Ross raises a brow at her and plucks the cigarette from between his lips. “Is that all? ...And after all this time, I was beginning to think it was because we were friends.” He jokes.

 _“...Friends?”_ Valerie tries to frown, but a smile quickly takes hold of her lips. “I do not know what this word means, Herr Gold! But I _do_ know, if there are going to be portraits of me in museum fifty years from now, they will be _damned good_ portraits. And when I am dead, if people think I am secret lover of yours, I say, even better.”

“My lover?” Ross tries not to retch at the thought. “Wouldn't you rather be remembered as the sapphic murderess you really are?”

“Eh.” Valerie snorts and taps the ashes from her cigarette. “People will look at your drawings of Ulla and me making love, read her poems to me, and say, ‘ _How nice it is, that white woman and black woman are friends!’_ More stupid than police in Praha.” She snickers, “But! You do enough drawings of me, they will assume I am your Miláček. The scholars will wonder, _‘Who is enchanting woman in Ross Gold's art? So beautiful and free-spirited she is!’_ I will become symbol, like Mona Lisa, and live forever.”

"I hate to disappoint," Ross sighs, “But at this rate, the only place my work will end up is in the trash.”

“Ne, ne, ne.” Valerie tuts. “Your work belongs in trash, I will be first to tell you. Like true friend.”

He raises a brow at her. “I thought you said we weren’t friends.”

She scowls. “You are one of least stupid people in Wien, so for you I make exception.”

Ross presses his lips into a thin line, trying to decide if he should be flattered or not.

“...Still pretty stupid though.”

He groans internally and rolls his eyes. “Go, both of you. Get dressed. We're done here.”

Both women roll their eyes and get up, plucking their clothes of the floor.

“I still expect full day's pay.” Valerie mutters as she dresses herself.

Ross waves the two of them away. “You know where I keep it.” He mumbles.

Valerie grins and saunters over to the little end table in the corner. “Yes, I do...” She hums, pulling the drawer open and grabbing more than her share of crowns. “Come, Ulla. We get drunk tonight.” She looks to Ross with a smirk. “Gold— What do you say you come with us? I feel generous. Let me buy you drink with your money.”

Ross shoots her a defeated look.

“Eh.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You are probably sad drunk, anyway.”

They finish dressing and head to the front door. Ulla pauses when she rests her hand on the knob. "Sure you don't want to come?"

Ross slouches deeper into his chair and lets out a puff of smoke. "Quite certain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the New Testament, Salome dances for and seduces her stepfather Herod, who in return offers to give her anything she wishes, up to half of his kingdom. Salome’s mother tells her to request the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter, and Herod delivers.  
> Oscar Wilde wrote a play based on this story in 1894. In his version, Salome is infatuated with John, and demands his head after he rejects her. In art of this time, Salome was frequently used to represent the femme fatale, the dangers of seduction, and the world of vice and hedonism that developed alongside the industrial revolution.  
> Prior to this time period, Salome was depicted as an innocent girl unaware her sexuality, but the Symbolist Salome was a very witting seductress. The art is kind of amazing (tw for severed heads?):  
> [“The Apparition” by Gustav Moreau, 1877. Oil on Canvas.](http://bit.ly/2iUvtBK) (Moreau did a TON of Salomes and they’re all gorgeous)  
> [“Salome” by Lucien Levy Dhurmer, 1896. Pastel.](http://bit.ly/2hHVmXt)  
> [“Salome” by Max Oppenheimer, 1913. Oil on Canvas.](http://bit.ly/2ixTgLg) (NSFW, probably?)


End file.
